


Your Lungs, My Lungs

by whatsun



Series: Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, reference to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:04:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsun/pseuds/whatsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of early morning, Sherlock breathes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Lungs, My Lungs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spectacular_sociopath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectacular_sociopath/gifts).



> So this work is written for spectacular_sociopath because she is my muse and my conductor of light.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of early morning, Sherlock breathes. He inhales the peace that settles over and around his bed, the fluorescent sodium glow of the streetlights spilling through the window, and the warm scent of the dreaming man beside him. Sometimes, Sherlock stops to just be, ceasing to think, just for a moment. Often, it hangs in the space above the duvet, suspended in the fabric of the night, until the dormant solider shifts in his sleep, gently unraveling the web that temporarily ensnares Sherlock’s racing mind.

It’s like this often. After the harsh panting and the sound of skin slapping skin, comes the silence, punctuated only with sleepy sighs and half-conscious caresses.  It’s a moment where the four walls of the snug bedroom on the first floor of the cozy flat become a sanctuary. Where the untouchable detective becomes soft and pliable in his lover’s gentle arms. The doctor always succumbs to sleep first, cradling Sherlock against his chest as if he were as fragile the notes he plays in the darkest minutes of the nighttime. This is how Sherlock loves him. Soft lips still flushed with the force of the love they shared, slightly parted as he breathes, rubbing his face against the pillow every so often. Sherlock has tried to identify the pattern of these movements, but, as ever, his lover still holds the power to elude him. He doesn’t mind, though. In the moments before Sherlock tumbles after him into dormancy, he likes to study the sleeper that lies entangled with him.

The way the light twists around the strands of the golden hair that tickle the underside of his nose fascinates Sherlock. His breath moves them, giving them a shifting life of their own, separate from the man they belong to. This is how Sherlock may claim him, in sleep, with the knowledge that the life below him is entirely, utterly encased with his own. The feel of bared skin under his palm, still over-warm from the activities that have proceeded this moment. Soft eyelashes that flutter whispers across John’s cheekbones, slightly darker than the sun-bleached hair on his head. Coiled strength in the muscles of his stomach, noticeable even as he loosens under Sherlock’s fingertips. The slight tickle of the hair on his legs as he shifts, brushing past his lover’s.

Sometimes, Sherlock likes to press his lips against John’s while he sleeps. He doesn’t move for a fleeting eternity, just breathes in the taste of toothpaste and tea and himself, and lets his companion do the same. He wonders what he tastes of, wonders if John will ever wake up to his breath in his mouth. Sherlock exhales and inhales to compliment the soldier’s, heart rate steadily increasing as he takes in more carbon dioxide and less oxygen with each breath. He would lie like this forever, if biology would allow it. If his lungs didn’t begin to burn with the need to take in air of his own, and if John’s sleeping form didn’t begin to move restlessly.

Sometimes, if he concentrates, Sherlock can pretend they are the same. Just one being, torn into two separate bodies and laid side by side to feel each other’s warmth. He likes to pretend that they will never be apart, that there is no earthly force, no divine god even, that could possibly tear them apart. Sometimes, he even likes to imagine that they will live forever, suspended in these moments. Similarly, he sometimes thinks this moment will be his last, and his will never wake from this night. And when, on occasion, Sherlock does imagine this, he finds himself realizing that he is not at all adverse to this. Because if whomever looks down upon this earth would allow Sherlock a choice, this is where he would choose to die, by his soldier’s side.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed :) Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed.


End file.
